Weakness
by God of Mishief
Summary: Now, John remembered what it felt like to be shot. The horrid pain, and burning, and numbing coldness of shock that was more terrifying than the wound itself. He had been a soldier. He knew what weapons were capable of. It didn't stop him from jumping in front of the bullet the second the man's finger flexed over the trigger.


**This is my first crack at Sherlock fan fiction. Give it to me honestly. Obviously, none of **_**Sherlock **_**belongs to me. If it did, Benedict would love me, by now, wouldn't he…**

After the fall, and after Sherlock's return, John was never quite the same. Sure, he still went with Sherlock on his adventures, and he loved them as much as he had before, but he had come to figure out that he had a major weakness.

Sherlock Holmes himself.

I'm sure the thought has crossed many a mind that it was horribly _obvious _how weak John Watson came to the Holmes man, but you see, John has this problem- he sees, yes, but he does not _observe._

John, like any non-masochistic, rational human being, became very protective of this weakness after discovering its existence. He tried not to be too obvious about how his heart raced when Sherlock put himself into danger, or how he watched his steps so closely, or how he would wake in terror at night and just stand outside Sherlock's bedroom door and listen to him breathe, just to make sure he was still there, alive, okay.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The case was fairly normal. Well, as normal as any case could be that caught Sherlock's attention. The brilliant detective had figured out what had happened, but they were on the chase. If John was honest with himself, which he fairly was, he would admit just how much he loved the rush of adrenaline in his bloodstream, how his lungs burned with lack of oxygen, how even his brain felt as though it were being worked out with such a partner, and how wondrously glorious it all felt.

Now, John remembered what it felt like to be shot. The horrid pain, and burning, and numbing coldness of shock that was more terrifying than the wound itself. He had been a soldier. He knew what weapons were capable of.

It didn't stop him from jumping in front of the bullet the second the man's finger flexed over the trigger.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxx

Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan all sat in the hospital waiting room. Although sixty-six percent of the present party wasn't big fans of the good doctor, and even lesser fans of his best friend, they knew John better than the rest of the force and were the designated hospital visitors.

"WHERE IS HE?!"

Sherlock's voice rang through the whole of the hospital floor. Lestrade turned to see him harassing the nurse behind the desk.

"Sherlock!" he snapped. "Leave her be!"

The sharp-eyed detective turned on Lestrade.

"Where is he? Where is John?"

"He is in ICU right now. Only family is allowed in to see him," he explained.

Sherlock didn't hesitate to go marching through the doors, but he was blocked by two doctors and a nurse.

"Excuse me, sir, but I'm going to have to ask you to sit and wait out here with the rest of Dr. Watson's friends," the largest doctor spoke up.

Sherlock looked over the left-handed divorcee, taking in the marijuana use and nicotine addiction, along with the presence of two- three cats, and decided he was wholly unworthy of his attention.

"I need to get back there!" Sherlock insisted, straining, looking over the men.

"Unless you're family, I can't let you in. I'm sorry."

"I am his family. The closest he has," Sherlock glared.

"I would disagree."

Harry stood in the doorway of John's room, shutting the door between Sherlock and his salvation, the relief of this overwhelming- dare he admit it- guilt over his best friend's present circumstances.

"She gets to be here after she's been drinking- this alcoholic she-devil who doesn't give two shits about him- but I can't be let in? I live with him!" Sherlock was effectively livid.

"I'm sorry, sir. Now please, I really don't want to have you thrown out of here, but I'll do it. Sit, please," the doctor said again. Harry disappeared into John's room with a glare.

Lestrade managed to get Sherlock over to the couch.

"Sherlock, you need to calm down," he tried to say in a soothing voice.

"Calm down? I need to bloody calm down when my John is sitting in a room, injured, because of me taking on your dirty work?! You imbeciles," he growled.

The police force had seen Holmes in a variety of moods, but never had they seen him so frayed because of a person.

"It's not like he's your husband," Anderson rolled his eyes.

"I know that," Sherlock snapped, "imbecile."

"Don't be too hard on him, Anderson. The Freak has finally found love," Donovan smirked. Sherlock glared. Anger at the pair of them was easier to face than the anger with himself or the Russian Assassin he would happily tear apart bone by bone, ligament by ligament, until he begged for mercy.

"John isn't gay," Anderson snorted. "Any reasonably intelligent person could see that."

"If your intellect is considered 'reasonably intelligent' I fear for this species," Sherlock snorted lightly, eyes meanwhile trained on the door to the room he was denied access to.

"Are you serious- you actual give a damn about him, don't you?" Donovan's eyes grew wide.

"John is my only friend," Sherlock shrugged. "It would be considered rational to want to keep him alive. Or perhaps YOU are the high-functioning sociopath."

Donovan wasn't about to let it go, though.

"Is the great, cold, Sherlock Holmes actually in love?" she asked.

"Love is merely a chemical process. A chemical process I am obviously not taking part in. Besides, I am above others. Why would I lower myself to your level?"

The silence remained in the waiting room until Harry walked out, early in the morning hours, to let them know John was stable and was being moved into a normal room, that they could meet him down there.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxx

John noticed the bleach and chemical smell of hospital. He noticed the scratchy sheets, the uncomfortable gown, and the too-bright lights. He remembered the gunshot, and his abdomen was incredibly sore with the burning that comes with a bullet wound. He knew what hospital he was in; he remembered Harry telling him about it when he was at one of him more lucid moments.

He looked around, saw the nurse smile at him a moment.

At least, that happened until a certain consulting detective burst through the door, intent on taking in everything that had happened to him.

"Only an idiot jumps in front of a speeding bullet to save a friend," Sherlock snapped when he deemed that John was indeed going to live.

"Only an idiot jumps off a building to save a friend," he croaked out.

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, but he made eye contact with the wounded doctor. Instead of verbally responding, he sat beside him, taking his friend, suddenly overcome with gratitude that the man was okay.

"I see the master has found his lost puppy," Donovan placed a bouquet of flowers down on the table in the corner of the room. "Hello, Dr. Watson, please get well."

Her tone was as monotonous as one could get without being a documented robot.

Sherlock whipped around to back her into place with just a look, along with Anderson who had snickered.

"Well, good ol' boy, we want to thank you for helping to solve the case," Lestrade entered the room, trying desperately to ignore the tense atmosphere.

"Thanks, Greg," John tried to smile. "And thanks for the flowers, Donovan, Anderson."

"You're welcome," Anderson shrugged.

"Now, are you okay?" John turned to Sherlock. "He didn't get off any other shots after I was on the ground, did he? I would hate to know I went through all that trouble to protect you, just to have you injured, too-"

He was cut off by Sherlock's lips pressed firmly to his own.

He was surprised, stunned really, and quite pleasantly touched by the gesture. He was even more shocked to discover that, in the sweet, slightly tense moments that Sherlock was close to him, his body responded. His breath hitched, his pupils dilated, his heartbeat sped up…

And he was hooked up to machines that made this very evident to _everyone in the bloody room _just how much he liked this little gift from Sherlock to himself.

Sherlock pulled back, eyes a bit wide. His lips were slightly red from the activity they had been participants in, and his chest was rising more quickly than usual.

Donovan's eyes nearly bugged out of her head, as she tried to catch flies with her mouth.

Anderson nearly joked.

"But…you aren't _gay_," he insisted, refusing to believe that he saw John's reaction. "And you are a bloody robot. You don't have emotions!"

"Dammit to hell, Anderson, shut up!" Lestrade yelled, secretly thinking just how happy he was for the couple.

"Leave us!" Sherlock commanded. They scampered out pretty easily.

John looked up at his gorgeous flat mate.

"I would say I'm sorry, if that was what this situation called for," Sherlock said. "But judging by your reaction…I would assume that-"

"That that's not the case? I would have to agree," he mumbled. He cleared his throat. "Umm, Sherlock, how long have you wanted to do that?"

"Consciously- about three minutes; subconsciously- likely since you didn't tell me to piss off," he admitted. "How long have you been willing to accept such…physical display of emotion?"

"Consciously- about three minutes, fifteen second; subconsciously- probably since you told me you were friends with that skull."

"The skull?" Sherlock's eyebrows grew together. "Why the skull? What's so special about it?"

"I don't know. It just made you different." John rolled his eyes.

"My brilliance sets me apart from others; the skull just made me seem incapable of human interaction."

"Sherlock, I don't want to talk about the skull!"

"Oh," he said, "then what do you want to talk about?"

"I don't. How about, you kiss me again, and later we can laugh at those stupid expressions on Anderson's and Donovan's faces," John leaned towards his best friend, now his- well, he didn't know.

"More stupid than usual?" Sherlock smirked as he got closer to the doctor's tempting lips.

"Yes, more than usual," John chuckled.

"John," Sherlock stopped just before their mouths touched; his breath fanned out across John's face. "Why did you jump in from of the bullet?"

"Because, I love you, you idiot, and I couldn't stand to lose you, not again," John grabbed a handful of dark curls, ignoring the pain it caused. "Want to tell me why you jumped off the roof?"

"Don't have an average mind, John. They exploited you as my weakness, which would never have been an issue if I didn't…if I didn't love you as I did, as I do."

John kissed Sherlock fiercely then, as he realized that, as bad as weaknesses are, they're bearable if shared.

**So there! I love the Johnlock pairing, but tell me what you think! I might be willing to right a sequel if there's enough pressure for one!**

**All my love**

**xoxox**


End file.
